Before the words were out of her mouth the distant raven jerked downward, turning over as it plummeted to reveal a second arrow transfixing its feathered corpse.
“You are a fine shot,” Eldran said as he lowered his bow. Smoothly he swung into his saddle. “I would stay to shoot with you, but I have hunting to do.” Without a backward glance he wheeled his horse and rode down the hill, his men following as if unaware that their backs were bare to the camp’s archers.
That thought occurred quickly to Arvaneus. “Archers,” he began, when Jondra whirled on him, glaring. She said no word, nor needed to. The huntsman backed away from her, eyes down, muttering, “Your forgiveness, my lady.”
Next she turned her attentions to Conan. “You,” she breathed. “He spoke to me like that, and you did nothing. Nothing!”
The big Cimmerian eyed her impassively. “Perhaps he is right. I found signs of a beast that may kill with fire. And if he is right about that, perhaps he is right about the difficulty of killing it. Perhaps you should return to Shadizar.”
“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!” She spat each word. “Why was I not told of these signs? Arvaneus, what do you know of this?”
The huntsman darted a malice-filled gaze at Conan. ‘‘A fire begun by lightning,” he said sullenly, ‘‘and a few old bones. This one is frightened by his own shadow. Or by the shadow of the mountains.”
“That is not true, is it?” Jondra’s eyes were doubtful on Conan’s face. “You do not make invention for fear of dying at the hillmen’s hands, do you?”
‘‘I do not fear death,” Conan said flatly.”The dark will come when it comes. But none save a fool seeks it out needlessly.”
The noblewoman tossed her head haughtily. “So,” she said, and again, “So.” Without another look at Conan, she stalked away, calling loudly, “Lyana! Prepare my morning bath, girl!”
Arvaneus grinned at Conan malevolently, but the Cimmerian youth did not see him. Matters had become complex far beyond his simple plans on leaving Shadizar, Conan thought. What was he to do now? There was one way he knew to concentrate his mind for the solution of a problem. Producing a small whetstone from his pouch, he drew his sword and settled cross-legged to touch up the edge on the ancient blade and think.
Basrakan Imalla glared at the raven lying dead on his chamber floor and tugged at the forks of his beard in frustration. The watch-ravens were not easily come by. Nestlings must be secured, and only one pair in twenty survived the incantations that linked them so that one of the two saw and experienced what the other did. Time to secure the birds, time to work the spells. He had no time for replacing the accursed bird. Likely the other had fallen to a hawk. And he had so few of them.
With a grunt he kicked the dead bird, smashing it into the bare stone wall. ‘‘Filthy creature,” he snarled.
Tugging his crimson robes straight, he turned to the six tall perches that stood in the center of the floor. On five of the perches ravens sat, tilting their heads to watch him with eyes like shiny black beads. Their wings, clipped so they could not fly, drooped listlessly. There were few furnishings in the room other than those perches. A table inlaid with mother-of-pearl bore a brass lamp and a scattering of implements for the dark arts. A shelf along one wall held the volumes of necromantic lore that he had gathered in a lifetime. No one entered that room, or the others reserved to his great work, save him, and none save his acolytes knew what occurred there.
Lighting a splinter of wood at the lamp, Basrakan began to trace an intricate figure in the air before the first bird. The tiny eyes followed the flame, which was mirrored in their black surfaces. As he traced, Basrakan chanted words from a tome copied on vellum made of human skin rather than sheepskin, words that floated in the air till the walls seemed to shimmer. With each word the tracing grew more solid, till an unholy symbol in fire hung between himself and the raven.
The raven’s beak opened with painful slowness, and creaking words, barely recognizable, emerged. “Hills. Sky. Trees. Clouds. Many many clouds.”
The sorcerer clapped his hands; the fiery image vanished, and the words ceased to come. It was often thus with the creatures. By the spells that held them they would speak of men before all else, but if there were no men they would mutter about whatever they happened to see, go on forever if he did not silence them.
The same ritual before the next bird gained him the same reply, with only the terrain changed, as did the next and the next. By the time he reached the last raven he was hurrying. An important matter awaited his attention in the next room, and he was certain by now what the creature would report. Chanting, he traced the symbol in fire, preparing even as it came into being to clap his hands.
“Soldiers,” the raven croaked. “Many many. Many many.”
Barakan’s breath caught in his throat. Never more than now had he regretted the inability of the ravens to transmit numbers. “Where?” he demanded.
“South. South of mountains.”
Thoughtfully the stern-faced Imalla stroked his beard. If they came from the south, they must be Zamorans. But how to deal with them? The bird that had actually seen the soldiers could be made to return and guide his warriors back to them. The men would see it as a further sign of the favor of the old gods, for birds were creatures of the spirits of the air. And it would the first victory, the first of many against the unbelievers.
“Return!” Basrakan commanded.
“Return,” the raven croaked agreement, and he broke the link.
How many soldiers, he wondered as he strode from the chamber, and how many warriors of the true gods to send against them?
As he passed through the next chamber, he paused to ponder the girl who cowered against a wall paneled in polished oak, as rare and costly in these mountains as pearls. Her dark eyes streamed tears, and her full mouth quivered uncontrollably. Her skin was smooth and supple, and his view of it was not hampered by garments.
Basrakan grimaced in disgust and wiped his hands on the front of his scarlet robes. Only eighteen, and already she was a vessel of lust, attempting to ensnare the minds of men. As did all women. None were truly pure. None were worthy of the ancient gods.
Shaking himself from his dark reverie, the holy man hurried on. He had no fear for the girl’s wandering. The geas he had put on her would not allow her to leave that chamber until he gave her permission, until he found her worthy.
In the corridor he found Jbeil Imalla just entering his abode. The lean man bowed, his black robes rustling stiffly. “The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla. I come with ill tiding
s.”